


Then All of a Sudden (I Heard a Note)

by alienor_woods



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M, Love Triangles, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Yamcha fails to propose after ten years of dating, Bulma finds herself at a crossroads in her life. Between her heart-wrenching break up and a career-defining merger, Bulma finds herself stretched to her limit, and having Vegeta as a houseguest-turned-something-more doesn't help in the slightest. Breaking up is never easy, and the course of true love never did run smooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then All of a Sudden (I Heard a Note)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Swimming" by Florence + the Machine.

* * *

 

Bulma had spent most of her Friday pushing paper around on her desk, trying to find something, anything, to do. With all of her technicians at the annual conference in Tokyo, all of her current projects were on hold. So she changed out the faulty wiring in one of her mother’s cleaning bots, re-attached the arms of and legs of several of Vegeta’s training bots, re-organized the blueprints on her desk, and answered all of the voicemails and emails in her inboxes.

And, still, it was only 2:30 in the afternoon.

So when her lab phone rang, she all but _flew_ across the room to answer it. “Bulma Briefs,” she greeted.

“Hey babe!” The sound of Yamcha’s voice brought a smile to her face, and she sank down into a nearby chair.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed. “I’m about to die in here.”

He chuckled, the sound distorted by the slight static. “Oh, surely the great Bulma Briefs isn’t bored; she’s far too resourceful for that.”

With a roll of her eyes, Bulma dropped her chin into her palm. “I just don’t understand why they had to take all my tech guys for this stupid conference. I’m thinking about just leaving early and doing some laps in the pool.”

“Well, as…exciting as that sounds, I have a much better idea.”

“Oh? And what exactly would that be?”

“Why don’t you skive off the rest of the day, as you were already planning to do—“

“Great minds think alike,” Bulma interjected.

“Yes, they do. Anyway, take a nice long bath, get all dressed up and you and I,” he murmured, his voice slipping down an octave, “will go out to dinner tonight.”

Gripping the phone tighter, Bulma asked: “So are we talking cute sundress dressed up or black tie formal?”

Yamcha _hmm_ -ed on the other end. “I was thinking Water’s Fall, so pretty dressed up, I would say. We have something important to talk about,” he finished, his voice full of excitement and promise.

Her heart dropped to her stomach and she took a moment to breathe deeply before responding in a calm voice. _A true woman never shows her cards_ , her mother had always said.

“Of course, honey. That sounds wonderful.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Perfect.”

Yamcha had to go; his agent was calling through. The calmness with which Bulma placed the phone onto the cradle belied the butterflies whirling in her stomach. She stripped off her lab coat, shuffled everything into its appropriate place, and left her lab, making sure to lock the door behind her and set the alarm.

“Aya,” she said as she stopped by reception, “I’m leaving for the day. Would you make sure to send any calls to my voicemail for me?”

“Sure, no problem, Bulma,” Aya smiled. She was an on-again, off-again intern for Dr. Briefs, depending on her course schedule at West City University’s biological engineering graduate program, but she also worked as the office’s receptionist Wednesdays to Fridays. “Did you get Yamcha’s call? I directed it to the lab since I didn’t get an answer in your office.”

Bulma grinned in response and leaned across the reception desk. “He’s taking me to Water’s Fall tonight.”

Aya’s jaw dropped open and she slammed her palm on her open text book. The thick stack of glossy pages muted the impact. “Shut up; no way. Did he say anything else?”

“Only that we have something important to talk about.” There was no one else in reception, just a clear line of sight to the gardens beyond through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but Bulma kept her voice low and secretive. It was the only appropriate way to gossip, of course.

The phone rang, and Aya groaned before she picked up the receiver. “One second, Bulma. Capsule Corporation, this is Aya…Of course, sir, let me transfer you.” She punched in a few numbers, waited, then said: “Dr. Briefs, Mr. Toriyama is on the line for you.”

She hung up the phone and swiveled back to Bulma, who was skimming the front page of the day’s newspaper. “Okay, so you have to give me _all_ the details later tonight. And I want to see that ring front and center Monday morning.”

“But you don’t work Mondays.”

Aya shook her head and turned to her monitor, brown bob swinging fetchingly around her jawline, and clicked her desktop mouse a few times. “Yep—Ayame is out Monday, so I’m on the schedule to fill in for her. So, _no_ excuses and _no_ using the back door on Monday!”

“You have yourself a deal.” Bulma pushed off of the counter with a wink and waved goodbye as she pushed through the doors into the sunny August afternoon.

Her father had finished the mile-long pathway between the laboratory complex and the house a few years ago, and the trees he had planted along the edge had finally filled out enough to provide a decent amount of shade. Most days, Bulma kicked off her shoes and grudgingly asked herself why she had chosen to walk instead of at least taking a moped or something. But today, she breathed deep and found herself caught between the urges of wanting to meander home, turning her racing thoughts over in her mind, or hurrying home to get ready as soon as possible.

She chose the latter, picking up her pace and letting her shoes swing from her fingertips. She’d had ten damn years to think about their relationship, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Before she even placed her hand on the doorknob to her bedroom, she knew something was off. And once inside, Bulma shook her head and tossed her heels onto her bed.

“Oh, Vegeta,” she sighed lightly. Though her houseguest could have left hours ago, his presence still hung heavy in the air.

She hummed in affirmation as she moved into her bathroom and turned her faucet on. He left everything too neat and organized after going through it all; she snickered a bit at the sight of all of her lotions and serums lined up in a tidy row, even though they had been scattered across the counter just that morning.

He didn’t care that his hosts knew that he was going through their things, in fact, he made it fairly obvious. And even though it _was_ a bit weird that he had been in her room today, opening her drawers and sifting through her accessories, the fact that he had reorganized the pool house last weekend and the kitchen drawers on Wednesday put her at ease. He just liked to… _know_ what was in the house, she supposed, much like going through someone’s medicine cabinet. And in the process of figuring out what lived where, he seemed to have found her family’s system of organization wanting.

All thoughts of Vegeta and his odd, snooping ways were quickly pushed aside as Bulma sank into the steaming bathtub. She sighed and slid down until the water lapped over her chin, closing her eyes. Tonight was _the_ night. She would be able to hold her head high from here on out, she could thrust her left hand out at everyone who had whispered behind her back that she was getting older, that ten years was an awfully long time to go without any reassurance, that Yamcha was just getting the proverbial milk for free.

She slid even lower, her self-satisfied smirk covered by the water. Okay, it was time to get serious and get this show on the road. Clearing her mind of speculation and subjectivity, Bulma focused on one thing as she dunked her head fully underneath the water: that she needed to look absolutely, categorically, _cataclysmically_ fantastic tonight.

 

* * *

 

And she did. At a quarter to seven, Bulma descended the stairs and crossed the living room to the kitchen to locate a bottle of wine. She always had a glass or two before going out to dinner; it took the edge off of the ever-present photographers and gawkers.

She was pleased to find that tonight _was_ in fact a good night: Vegeta had come out of the Gravity Room for once and was sitting at the breakfast table with a variety of sandwiches on a plate before him. He looked up to glare at her, presumably for interrupting his otherwise peaceful and silent meal, only to pause all movement momentarily and sweep her body with his eyes. Bulma ducked quickly behind the opened refrigerator door to hide her smile. Catching him off-guard was one of her favorite things these days (though nothing would ever top a successful hypothesis proven true in her lab).

An open bottle of chardonnay caught her eye, and she popped out its cork and kicked the fridge door shut with her heel. “Nice to see you, Vegeta. I’d almost forgotten what you looked like.”

“What,” he asked after finally swallowing, “are you wearing?”

She spun once for him, loving the whisper of the fabric around her knees. “It’s silk.”

“It’s indecent,” he deadpanned, staring at the deep v neckline. Under his direct scrutiny of her cleavage, she didn’t know whether to feel offended or satisfied. After all, Vegeta had a nasty habit of saying the exact opposite of what he actually meant.

Shrugging, she sipped from her glass, leaning back against the countertop. She wished she could catch him glancing at her again so that she could have confirmation one way or the other. But, now he knew she was on the lookout, so he was extra-focused on his food. “I’m going out tonight,” she stated, and then cursed herself for obviousness of the comment.

“With the human.”

“With Yamcha, yes.” Bulma smiled unconsciously and double-checked her curls in the dark window of the microwave. “I think it’s going to be a great night.” She half-waited for Vegeta to ask why, but his silence wasn’t completely unexpected. “He’s going to propose. Well, I think he is at least. He’s taking me to—wait, do you know what proposing is? It’s when—“

“I understand the concept,” he cut her off, taking a bored bite of his sandwich.

“Great, I didn’t know if Saiyans had the same societal constructs but—anyway—I think tonight is going to be great…”

Bulma continued to babble on as she poured herself a second glass of wine. Vegeta didn’t seem interested, and if he hadn’t interrupted her just a moment ago she would have sworn he wasn’t even listening to her. Why she was even telling him all of this was completely weird, too. All of this…socialization was going to scare him off to his GR for another weel, and her mother would ironically blame it all on her and claim that _Bulma_ wasn’t inviting enough. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop talking, and she watched him eat as she did so.

He just sat there the whole time, completely unresponsive. Methodically, he worked his way through one stack of sandwiches (turkey) before he started on the second stack (peanut butter and banana). His staidness gnawed at her in the most uncomfortable and unfamiliar way. She was relieved when, two sandwiches from the bottom of his stack, a housebot informed her that Yamcha was waiting for her outside. Silently, she returned the bottle of wine to the fridge and took her purse from the counter.

No goodbyes were exchanged, and it wasn’t until after Bulma had rounded the corner and the _click-clack-click_ of her heels had faded that Vegeta tossed his half-eaten, final sandwich back onto the plate with a grimace.

He had completely lost his appetite.

With a freshly-charged and happy trill, a housebot swiveled out of the corner in which it had been docked for recharging. Without looking, Vegeta threw a blast over his shoulder and shot straight through its motherboard. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood up and stretched his arms above his head. The _pop-fizzle_ of the dying housebot went ignored from where it smoked on the tile, taken into account only when Vegeta stepped over it to rinse his plate and load it into the dishwasher.

It was time to get back to training and clear his head.

 

* * *

 

Water’s Fall was the go-to restaurant for all high-end celebrations in the south bank of downtown West City. Celebrities, models, athletes, and moguls threw down countless amounts of money for dinners, receptions, birthday parties, and anniversaries at the ritzy establishment.

Needless to say, the ambiance was what counted the most in all of these situations, as well as the cooperation between the clientele and the staff. Bulma was very impressed with Yamcha’s preparations for the evening. They had been seated in the back corner; their table was impeccably set and a bottle of chilled champagne sitting at its edge. Bulma, heart pounding, was very careful to not say a word to hint that she was onto him. Men like to think that they’re the ones in control, after all.

So, they made small talk over their dinner; he complimented her dress and she noted that he cleaned up pretty well when necessary. He was jittery evening, leg bouncing from time to time, and finally motioned at the waiter to take away their plates. With nothing in between them, he reached over and grasped her hand.

“Bulma,” he whispered, his brown eyes shining in the candlelight. Almost on cue, a string quartet started up across the restaurant. Bulma could have died right then and there, she was so happy and proud of him and his planning.

“Yes, Yamcha,” she replied sweetly, gripping his hand. Her cheeks were already aching from smiling so wide, but she brushed that feeling aside. There were far more important things to think about right now, like remembering every little thing about this very big moment.

He opened his mouth, smiled widely again, and then: “I got signed!” He squeezed her hand and sat back, drumming his fingers against the table.

Her hand dropped limply to the table, and Bulma turned his words over in her head. “What?” she asked him, confused.

“I got signed!” he crowed. “The Wolves. Isn’t that great? I start on Tuesday.”

The frozen smile on Bulma’s face dropped fast, to be replaced with a fierce glare. Yamcha’s smile disappeared as well, and he gazed warily across the table.

“Are you fucking _serious_?” Bulma asked slowly.

“What’s wrong with you? What do you mean?”

“I’m asking if you’re fucking kidding me right now!”

“No! What the hell is your problem?”

“Is that seriously _all_ you had to say to me tonight?”

“…Yeah?” It had finally dawned on Yamcha that he had done something horribly wrong, and Bulma could see the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to figure out where he had mis-stepped.

She laughed sharply and leaned back in her chair, throwing her hands up in the air as she went. “Oh my _god_. I can’t believe this.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t be happy for me for one goddamn second,” Yamcha bit out. “I really don’t know what stick is up your ass tonight, but you’ve been fucking _weird_ since I picked you up.”

“What stick is up my ass, huh?” Bulma retorted. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and leaned forward. “Let me tell you why I’m so pissed right now that I can’t see straight: Like an idiot, I actually thought you were going to propose to me tonight!”

Yamcha shook his head, flabbergasted. “Why in the hell would you think that?”

The maitre d’ approached them warily, holding plates of cheesecake in each hand. “Sir? Are you ready for dessert or should I wait a few more minutes?”

Bulma whirled on the maitre d’. “Do I look like I want dessert? Do I look like someone that would really like to take a few minutes and enjoy a slice of cheesecake?” She knew she was being mean, and lashing out at the wrong person, and potentially ruining future relationships between Water’s Fall and Capsule Corp once word of her outburst got to the head chef, but she couldn’t _stop._ “For future reference, it’s generally a good idea to wait until the couple you’re serving doesn’t look like they want to throw that dessert into each other’s faces.”

Swallowing, the man backed away. “Of course, ma’am. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

Silence reigned over the table for the next few minutes, and even the most brazen of nearby gawkers turned back to their own conversations. Bulma sighed in defeat. “Have you even gone back to look at those rings, Yamcha?”

He rubbed his forehead. “No.”

“Of course,” Bulma snorted. She stared down at her hands, rubbed her thumb over her bare knuckles. Then, she raised her head and stared straight into his eyes. “Here’s the thing: We’ve been dating for ten years, Yamcha. We’ve looked at rings, lived together off and on, and talked about ‘the future’ on a pretty regular basis. So, tell me, please, what am I logically supposed to expect when you call me up on a Friday afternoon, tell me to dress up, and then take me out to Water’s Fall—Water’s Fall for god’s sake! Will you please explain to me exactly _where_ I got my wires crossed today?”

“Look, babe, I didn’t know—” he started, and then stopped, fiddling with a crease in the tablecloth.

“Didn’t know what?” she prompted him after a moment.

“That you were that serious about the rings,” he finished, shrugging. “We went to the jeweler’s right after we got back from Barbados, so I thought that maybe you were just still in some sort of honeymoon phase.”

He winced as soon as the words flew out of his mouth, knowing instinctively that had been the Wrong Thing to Say. However, Bulma regarded him silently, sitting so still and keeping her gaze so steady that Yamcha almost thought she wasn’t breathing. The maitre d’ immediately scampered over when she raised her hand and beckoned to him. “Call a taxi for me, please,” she asked, reaching behind her chair for her purse and shawl.

Yamcha reached across the table. “Bulma,” he said, his voice low and pleading.

“It’s interesting,” she cut him off, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, “that ten years ago, you were a boy lost in the desert, looking desperately for an escape. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t offered you a way out? I wonder if you would have stayed brave and innocent, or if you would have just become as distracted and fickle as you are now.”

She turned on her heel and stalked out of the restaurant and into the cab waiting at the curb.

 

* * *

 

Back at the Capsule Corporation mansion, Vegeta sat at the bar and slowly peeled the label off of his bottle of beer. Set in the wide hallway between the kitchen and the living room, the bar had shelves of liquor and red wines set against a mirror and wines and beers in the coolers below. Though Vegeta had seen the Briefs hire a barkeep for “house parties,” the bar was mostly self service, and it was the fraction of the size of the commercial bars he’d wandered into now and again when his wanderlust kicked in. Even now, he was taking up both bar stools by sitting in one and propping his feet up on the other.

 

The bots had all docked for the night; Dr. and Mrs. Briefs had long ago retreated to their bedrooms, had sex (yes, he’d heard it. Whatever Dr. Briefs lacked in youth he apparently made up for in diligence, if Mrs. Briefs’ sounds of enthusiasm were anything to go by), and gone to sleep.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Vegeta looked at the clock on the bar; _9:00_ the digital numbers coldly informed him. _Early_ , he mused, taking a swig of his beer.

Bulma came around the corner from the hallway and stalked across the living room. All of the happiness from earlier in the evening had drained away, leaving only a hard-set expression of fury and disappointment. She met his eyes but said nothing, just dropped her purse and shawl on the bar counter and pulled a bottle of red wine from its perch.

Despite its color, it flowed much more quickly than blood into the wide bell of Bulma’s glass, swirling and eddying and whipping up frothy bubbles on its surface. In the quiet, the clink of the bottle against the granite countertop sounded like the crack of a whip. Vegeta watched as she tilted her head back and chugged two-thirds of the wine, holding the glass with her bare left hand.

“Not quite up to your expectations?” he asked when she pulled her mouth from the rim of the glass.

The glare she sent his way would have sent a lesser man running with his tail between his legs. Then, her expression shifted, and she looked at him, really _looked_ at him with a calculating stare that caused him to narrow his eyes right back at her. She drained the rest of her glass and set it down so that she could flatten her palms on the bar and look him straight in the eye.

“If I asked you to, would you kill him for me?”

He laughed at her audacity, deep from in his belly, but a genuine laugh all the same (because he’s killed the rude and condescending earthling dozens of times in his dreams) until he realized that she wasn’t joking. Vegeta had seen her pissed off more times than he could count, but tonight, she was _angry_. With a wry smirk, he set his bottle on the bar and spun it from its neck. “Woman, he’s already died once. Don’t ask for something you’ll regret in the morning.”

She sighed but didn’t say anything more on the subject, just poured herself another big glass of wine and set the bottle back on the shelf. Her purse went under her elbow, her shawl over her shoulder, and she gripped her nearly-full wine glass by the bell. “Goodnight, Vegeta,” she murmured on her way by him.

He grunted in response and lifted his beer to his mouth again. Back through the living room she went, then up the stairs. A moment later, her door opened and closed and he heard the double pound of her shoes hitting the floor. It wasn’t until an hour or so later, when he was on his third beer, that the wine seemed to loosen the grip her anger had on her and he heard the sobs she tried muffle in her pillows.

Good. He’d always wanted a reason to slam the door on the human’s face.


End file.
